Daughter of Fortune (8 page)

“We are in Tesuque. ”

“We are?” She looked around, squinting in the
dark.

Finally she saw the pueblo looming before her, dark
and silent. There were no people about, but she could see dogs
roaming and sniffing. She stared at the silent creatures. “Why do
they not bark?” Her slow journey up the Camino Real had acquainted
her with the habits of the snarling, scarcely domesticated dogs
that inhabited each Indian pueblo.

The old man shrugged. “Señorita, they do not bark at
me.” He bent down by the pile of hides and gestured with his head.
“Come with me.”

She drew back. “I dare not,” she whispered. The
sleeping pueblo was full of Indians. But the Old One picked up his
pack by the ties and dragged it behind him, and she had no choice
but to follow him. She snatched up her deer hides and tagged close
to his heels as the dogs began to growl at her. She could only
trust him.

The Indian climbed a ladder, tugging his hides after
him. Maria pushed her pack in front of her up the ladder, hurrying
so she would not lose sight of him. He entered a low doorway and
Maria followed. She stopped in the doorway and dropped the hides,
her hand to her mouth.

The room was alive with moving figures. She leaned
against the wall, her heart pounding so fast she feared it would
leap from her breast. She forced herself to peer closer to the
bobbing and swaying dancers. They were paintings on deerhide. The
dancing candlelight and the breeze from the cool night made them
appear to be in motion. She rubbed her eyes and brushed her hair
from her face.

She recognized Miguel el Arcangel, with his wings
and sword. Over by the interior doorway stood San Jose, carrying
lilies that looked more like yucca blossoms. And there was Esteban
el Martir, pincushioned with arrows and looking heavenward. Several
Marias swayed in the evening breeze, each gently rocking a small
Indian baby with a halo. The figures were crude, so unlike the
magnificence of Mexico City’s religious paintings, but they had a
powerful presence.

The old man watched her. The smile on his face was
almost hidden by his wrinkles, but his eyes were appreciative. “Do
you like my saints?”

“Oh, yes,” she replied, tearing her eyes away from a
sweat-soaked Christ, his body red and drooping from his moving
cross, the agony of centuries reaching out to her in this New
Mexican pueblo.

The old man brushed off the front of his homespun
shirt. “I am Emiliano,
santero
to Diego Masferrer. ”

Saintmaker. She looked at him and smiled, extending
her hand. When he stared down at her hand, she wondered about the
propriety of offering her hand to an Indian, but there was
something about Emiliano that measured him as equal. Perhaps it was
his paintings.

After a long pause, he took her hand, giving it one
brief shake.

“I am Maria Espinosa de la Garza,” she said. “Thank
you for helping me.”

He snorted. “You have helped
me
. If my old
woman were alive, she would have called that a lazy man’s load that
I carried. But it was too much.” He peered at her face in the dim
light. “Do you think I am too old?”

It was a curious question. She looked around her at
the figures dancing in slow motion. There was San Antonio, he who
finds lost things. Her eyes filled with tears, and she struggled
against them. San Antonio, dear San Antonio. He would never
retrieve her losses. “No. You will never be really old, not so long
as you can make the saints dance. ”

He smiled. “Only another artist would say such a
thing. Are you an artist?”

She shook her head. “Oh, no. I cannot pretend such a
thing. But I like to paint.”

He turned toward the door. “We shall see. But now,
let us go. You spoke of Diego Masferrer. Let me take you to Las
Invernadas.”

“Where? ”

“Las Invernadas. It is what he calls his hacienda
and lands. I will take you to him. ”

They descended the ladder. “Is everyone asleep?” she
asked in a whisper.

“Yes. It is late. Besides, no one bothers me. I come
and go as I please.”

The dogs still roamed silently. Maria stayed close
to Emiliano. Without his burden he walked even faster. She
struggled to keep up with him. When he saw how she hurried and
noticed her limp, he slowed his pace.

“It is yet another league,” Emiliano said, and she
sighed. He peered at her. “Señorita Espinosa de la Garza, you have
come this far. Keep walking!”

Her head felt two sizes too large and her vision
seemed to sparkle around the edges. Her feet were a mass of
scratches, and she had left her broken shoe behind in the
santero’s
workshop, but she followed the old Indian
doggedly.

After an hour of silent struggle, Maria saw Las
Invernadas. The hacienda was reddish adobe like the pueblo, but of
only one story, long and low in the moonlight. She saw men walking
slowly back and forth on the roof, ghostly visions in the waning
moon.

“Guards,” said Emiliano. “They are there every
night. I will speak to them.”

Maria’s old uneasiness returned. What right had she
to lay her troubles at Diego Masferrer’s feet? She should have done
as Margarita insisted and thrown herself on the governor’s mercy.
Perhaps Margarita would have changed her mind in the morning light.
Mama had said she had been changeable as a young girl. Maria
stopped in the road, reluctant to move closer.

“Come, come,” said Emiliano impatiently.

She trailed after him to the gate. He called up to
the guards now standing still and watchful on the hacienda’s roof.
One of them waved Emiliano on and the men resumed their slow walk.
Emiliano jangled the bell by the front gate, the noise loud in the
midnight stillness. The crickets in the trees stopped singing, but
the dogs standing by the massive front door began to bay.

They were enormous dogs, probably descendants of the
first mighty dogs that Cortez had brought in armor from Spain. One
of them bounded to the gate and stuck his jaws through the
grillwork, growling and showing his teeth. Maria drew back, but the
old saintmaker stood there, his hand on the bell.

“Who is there?” called a voice. Maria straightened,
clutching her dress in tight bunches. It was Diego, and he sounded
angry. She should never have come.

“It is Emiliano, my lord,” called the Indian.

Maria could hear several bolts thrown on the other
side of the door.

“And what do you want, old man?” Diego called, his
voice kinder.

“I have something for you, Señor, that will not keep
until morning. Something you must have carelessly left behind in
Santa Fe.” For an Indian, Emiliano spoke with great familiarity.
Maria wondered at the relationship between the old man she stood by
and the lord of the hacienda.

Before Diego opened the door, he called to his dogs.
They bounded to him and crouched by his bare feet, watchful.

The ranchero had thrown on a robe and was still
tying the sash around his waist. He ran a hand over his curly hair
as he walked toward the gate. Maria shrank into the shadows.

“What have you for me, old man, that could not wait
until Christians are abroad in the land again?”

The
santero
smiled and pulled Maria toward
the open gate.

“This one, my lord.”

Diego stared at her. “
Dios mio
,” was all he
said.

It was enough. Maria flung herself into his arms,
sobbing. Diego put his arms around her, his hand heavy on her hair.
“Thank you, Emiliano.”

The
santero
turned to go. “I will return
later.”

Diego and Maria walked slowly toward the hacienda.
Maria tried to speak, tried to explain, but her face was muffled
against Diego’s robe and she was crying too hard to be understood.
They crossed the
galeria
slowly and went into the house.
Diego released her and shut the bolts.

He turned to her then, his face in shadow. Maria
wiped her nose on her sleeve. She dropped slowly to her knees and
held her hands in front of her, palms up. “I throw myself on your
mercy, my lord,” she said.

Quickly he put his hands under her elbows and jerked
her to her feet. His face was still puffy with sleep, but his eyes
were alive, his color livid. She tried to draw back, but he held
her by the elbows.

“La Viuda?” was all he could get out.

Terrified, Maria nodded. “She would not have me,”
she managed to say. She had never seen anyone so angry before.
Maria started to cry again as Diego held her by the elbows.

Then it was over. He let her go and ran his fingers
through his tousled hair. “Maria
chiquita
, I am not angry
with you. I am angry at myself.”

She stopped crying, bending down to dry her face on
her skirt. He continued, his voice weary. “I should never have left
you there. I should have known better.
Dios mio,
I did know
better!”

Maria shook her head. His words were not making
sense to her anymore. She needed to sit down, but the room was dark
and she could not see any benches. “Please, Señor, is there a place
to sit?” Diego appeared to be growing and shrinking, moving from
side to side, and again there was that sparkle around her eyes.

“Of course. My pardon,
chiquita
. I was not
thinking.” He picked up the candle from the table by the door and
led her to the low outcropping that lined the wall. She sank down
gratefully and leaned against the cool adobe wall.

Diego lit a branch of candles on another table
nearby and walked to an inside door. “Erlinda! Erlinda!” he called.
“Come, my dear!” He turned back to Maria, who sat with her eyes
closed. “And what did Doña Margarita say, or may I guess?”

Maria opened her eyes. Diego was standing close to
her, hands on his hips, looking down at her. She straightened her
tattered, filthy dress and patted it carefully around her legs. Her
feet were bare—she had lost her other shoe—and bleeding, her hair a
mess, and her dress in ruins, but she sat there, back straight,
ankles together, a lady. Maybe the contrast of her present life to
her former expectations brought the hard light glittering into his
eyes again. She looked away. “She said there was no room for me.
She has five daughters.” She paused, the humiliation making her
voice scarcely audible. “She was so disappointed when I arrived
with no jewels and—”

“I’ll wager she was,” interrupted Diego bitterly. He
sat beside Maria, put the candle next to him on the bench and
looked across the dim hall to the deerhide painting hanging there,
moving slowly in the cool breeze. “I was born here. I have lived
here all my life. I do not claim to be very observant, or nearly as
smart as my brother Cristóbal, but I have noticed one thing. This
country changes those who come into it, Maria
chiquita
.
Sometimes for the better, sometimes for the worse. In Margarita
Espinosa de Guzman’s instance, it has made her harder than
obsidian.”

“But why?” she asked, her voice soft.

“Indeed, I cannot say.” She shifted and their
shoulders touched. “She was not married to a good man. Whatever
kindness there may have been in her is gone.”

They sat in silence until Maria saw a woman standing
in the doorway. She was taller than Diego and fairer, with blond
hair and pale skin. Maria sighed with the same pleasure that an
artist feels when seeing a lovely portrait. This must be Diego’s
wife. She was beautiful. Maria could scarcely bear to think of her
own dishevelment in the same room with such a pretty one as this.
The woman held her candle high and peered at them. “Diego?” she
asked uncertainly.

“Over here, Erlinda. I want you to meet
someone.”

He stood, tucking his robe closer around him. Maria
got to her feet slowly, wishing that the room would stop moving.
She wanted to sit down again, but Diego was holding her hand.

“Yes. You see, my sister got all the height and
looks in the family.”

“Oh, Diego!” said Erlinda gently, taking Maria’s
other hand.

He laughed. “It is not a matter of great concern to
me.”

Erlinda smiled. Maria tried to smile, but suddenly
her knees buckled under her. Diego grabbed her and picked her up in
one motion.

“Diego,” said Erlinda in her gentle voice. “What
kind of host are you? Our company is worn with fatigue and you
stand there talking. Follow me.”

She picked up the larger branch of candles and led
the way down the hall. Maria tried to speak, to tell Diego to put
her down, but the words were not there.
I will tell him to put
me down
, she thought,
after I close my eyes for just a few
seconds
.

The sun was high, and the
light fell across
Maria’s pillow. She tried to sit up, but she ached all over. She
propped herself up on one elbow and looked around her.

It was a small, plain room, with white walls and no
ornamentation save for a deerskin painting of Santa Ana on the
wall. Maria leaned back against her pillow and regarded the
painting. It was the work of Emiliano the saintmaker. The figure
was tall and blond, and reminded her of Erlinda. Beside the
painting was a small altar. Compared to her bedroom at the family
estate in Mexico City, the room was bare. And yet somehow it was as
friendly as the people who inhabited the hacienda.
Las
Invernadas
, Emiliano had called it. Maria remembered little of
last night, except that Diego had set her down on the bed and
covered her. She had awakened once before morning and saw him
sitting in the window alcove, the moonlight outlining his curly
hair. She had gone back to sleep then, comforted, peaceful.

She took a deep breath and stirred. The whole house
smelled of
piñon
wood and the faint aroma of chocolate and
cinnamon. Her mouth watered. When had she last eaten? She could not
remember.